Heron

Across the waterfrom the shipyard—lights glitteringover the bodiesof nuclear submarines—and not farfrom the fishing pierwhere the Lost Cause,the Elizabeth-Kate,and the Special Kare moored, you stand,thin as a prospect, so stillI take you first for a sculptor’sjoke, your stoic beak forgedtoward the distant humand bangof industry.We study the grayfeathered stick of you,at first unfindablewith binocularssome strangers lend us,then unsteady in the lens.My fingers brush the cold,paint-chipped rail;I wrap and unwrapmy ankle around the pole,waiting for you to move,waiting for the couplewith the binocularsto stop watching,wondering if you arefor real, and what is realabout the evening—the glistening shipyard sparksexploding in the distance,the reeking nets, lobster trapsstacked high on the docks,a rusted red truck perchedat the end of the pier,and here, where the waterlaps a tinypebble-gray shore,your perfect plumage,the bold show of it,your awkward audience,unsure how long to stand,whether or not to wait for a signto break the calm and head backtoward the car, awayfrom the gleaming pink faceof the sky.

Abigail Carroll has published prose in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and Huffington Post, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in a variety of literary magazines, including Midwest Quarterly, Spiritus, Crab Orchard Review, River Oak Review, Ascent, and Ruminate. Her book Three Squares: The Invention of the American Meal (Basic Books, 2013) was a finalist for the Zocalo Public Square Book Prize. She lives and writes in Vermont.